


pretty in pink from your head to your toes

by aruarudayo



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Nagi being a gigantic flirt as usual, boyfriend shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23127460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aruarudayo/pseuds/aruarudayo
Summary: Iori can’t figure out why one of Nagi’s shirts is in his closet, just like how he can’t figure out how to deal with Nagi himself.
Relationships: Izumi Iori/Rokuya Nagi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	pretty in pink from your head to your toes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aegious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegious/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Ciel!!! Fun fact: I've been thinking about this idea since Christmas ever since I saw ionagi + boyfriend shirt when we were doing our gift exchange lol your birthday was a convenient excuse to make you something and to get this idea out of my head. Being your friend is always fun and inspiring, and I hope you like the fic!
> 
> Fun fact #2: this is the 16th fic in my archive :3c
> 
> To the general audience: please enjoy Iori being a disaster

Despite living with the other members of IDOLiSH7 for so long, Nagi has never gotten out of the habit of leaving his things in other people’s rooms. He leaves snacks in Tamaki’s room (not that Tamaki complains), his collection of anime blu-rays have become a permanent fixture in Mitsuki’s room in the space under the TV, and his manga is stacked up in Riku’s room right next to his bean bag chair.  
  
After they resolved things in Northmare, somehow his habit got worse, like he was holding himself back before, and that’s the only reason that Iori can think of as to why one of Nagi’s anime shirts is somehow in his closet when he opens it to get dressed.  
  
The shirt draws his attention immediately, thrown haphazardly on the floor unlike the rest of his wardrobe arranged neatly on their hangers, its bright pink colors a distinct contrast to Iori’s usual muted blue shirts and nondescript jackets. He blinks long and hard at the offending article of clothing, wondering when Nagi ever had a reason to take off his shirt while in his room.  
  
Nagi’s been taking up space in Iori’s room recently, idly chattering about his upcoming otaku events and recent anime he’s watched that he thinks Iori would like. Iori doesn’t watch a lot of anime, since many of the ones that interest him fall under the category of “cute things he isn’t supposed to enjoy at his age”, but he certainly enjoys watching Nagi talk about it. Nagi is everything Iori isn’t—open about his interests, warm, expressive—and Iori can’t help but admire that every time Nagi talks to him.  
  
So he hasn’t complained when Nagi spreads himself out on the carpet with his phone playing noisy mobile games or when he climbs up into his loft bed while Iori is doing homework and hangs over the side when he wants Iori’s attention. Or at least, he complains much less than he would if someone else had been doing it.  
  
He should probably yell at Nagi to come get his shirt. The man would probably drop everything and come running with that big smile on his face, eyes apologetic as he twirls around the room with the shirt, no doubt taking the opportunity to convince Iori to watch Magical Kokona with him again. Iori would probably follow his every move like a fool and agree to an anime marathon on his day off without much of a fuss.  
  
Iori should probably admit to himself that yelling at Nagi would just be an excuse to spend more time with him.  
  
Dressed in nothing but his underwear and denial, he can’t really call for anyone, much less someone he’s been dying to impress since their first MusFes. So he picks up the shirt, shaking out some of the wrinkles as he holds it out in front of him. It looks and feels comfy, the fabric soft between his fingertips.  
  
Naturally, Iori’s curiosity gets the better of him, and before he thinks about what he’s doing, he puts the shirt on.  
  
Since it’s made for Nagi, the shirt’s too big—the short sleeves come close to Iori’s elbows, the bottom hem just covering his briefs, but in all, it just makes the shirt feel even comfier. Iori brings the low collar up to his nose, glad that the shirt smells clean at least.  
  
It also smells like Nagi, and it would be just his luck that, while his nose is buried in a shirt that isn’t his own, Nagi barges into his room.  
  
“Iori, I am missing— _Oh_ , I suppose you have found it.”  
  
Mortification freezes Iori in place, a bright blush quickly rising from his toes to the tips of his ears. He can’t bring himself to turn around, his hands covering his face like that would make his current predicament go away. He can hear the grin in Nagi’s voice, the particular lilt he has when he’s teasing someone. Iori never realized how utterly embarrassing it is to be on the receiving end of it.  
  
Nagi comes closer, his feet padding softly across the floor. Suddenly he’s much too close, the lingering scent on the shirt paling in comparison to the real thing.  
  
“It looks good on you,” Nagi says, his usual cheer tempered by a quiet, underlying fondness.  
  
“…I apologize. I don’t know why I put it on,” Iori mutters into his hands.  
  
“Why are you apologizing? I left it in your closet.”  
  
A bit of perplexed, righteous irritation pushes aside his embarrassment, and Iori finally looks up at Nagi with a frown. “And _why_ did you leave it in _my_ closet?”  
  
“Because I thought it would look good on you!” Nagi beams at him and Iori has to squint to stop himself from being blinded. “Also I wanted to see what you would do if I did not say anything and I was correct in thinking you are a secret perv—”  
  
Even though no one’s around to hear besides them, Iori slaps his hands over Nagi’s mouth, ignoring how Nagi’s grin only grows wider beneath his palms. “ _Please don’t finish that sentence_ ,” he squeaks, trying to sound threatening and failing.  
  
Nagi holds up his hands in surrender, his laughter filling the room despite Iori muffling it. He gently pulls Iori’s hands off—Iori doesn’t put up much of a fight—and leans in, eyes sharpening into a more predatory gaze. “I quite like seeing you in my clothes, especially since you seem to like being in them.”  
  
Iori didn’t think it was possible for his face to get any hotter, but right now he feels fit to explode. “I…I…”  
  
Nagi saves him the trouble of responding, lips covering his softly, tentatively. There isn’t much urgency in the kiss, but Iori still feels the strength of Nagi’s presence behind it, pulling him along for the ride whether he likes it or not (though if he’s being honest, he likes it very much).  
  
They aren’t that different in height, but Nagi manages to use all six centimeters to his advantage, bending over slightly and forcing Iori to arch his back to accommodate and grab onto Nagi for support. When he does, Nagi takes the opportunity to snake his arms around Iori’s hips, hands drifting lower, lower—  
  
Iori’s eyes snap open (when did they close?) as he breaks away with a shriek, his scowl pointedly less effective on his rosy face. “Why do you _do_ that?!” he screeches, his hands protectively covering his behind as he glares at Nagi, who’s clutching his side, howling with laughter.  
  
“Because you are fun to tease,” Nagi chirps, side-stepping a half-hearted slap to the face.   
  
“Even during…that?!” Iori exclaims, gesturing vaguely between them.  
  
“Especially during that, my dear.” This time, before Iori can even try to retaliate, Nagi takes ahold of his wrist, his other arm going around Iori’s waist as he dips him, leaning in close once again. “And if you would like to continue _that_ , I am available any time, just for you.”  
  
As Iori tries to get himself together, Nagi rights them both, lets him go, and waltzes to the door. “But right now I must be off to a photo shoot. You are more than welcome to keep the shirt. Pink suits you.” He sends Iori a wink and a wave before disappearing through the door.  
  
Iori feels as if a hurricane had just passed through his room, leaving him winded and much too warm. He stares dumbly at the door, the realization dawning on him that Nagi planned everything that had just transpired, and with a groan, he sinks to the floor, wondering just what he had gotten himself into.

**Author's Note:**

> Nagi: I like to touch Iori's butt the most because I like how he screams :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
